


Hurt

by Ishxallxgood



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Finger fucking a wound, M/M, Masturbation, Poor Molly, Self-Harm, She really deserves better, Whump Will, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will is not coping well, will is in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishxallxgood/pseuds/Ishxallxgood
Summary: Every once in a while, Will cuts into his scar, just to see if he still feels pain. To know that he's still alive. Simplyto feelagain.One-shot inspired by NIN's Hurt
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 78





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeyouimagined](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeyouimagined/gifts).



Will can't remember the first time it happened. No, that's not right. He can remember the first time it happened. It was in his shed, where he had left his sheers half-hazardly on the table and they scraped against his smile just so. He had bled that time, and it hadn't been a lie when he told Molly it was just a scratch, and an accident.

What he couldn't remember, was the first time it happened intentionally. Nor the second. Nor the third. Although he does recall the time Molly tried to call him out on it. They fucked afterwards, and he had made sure she came so hard she would forget all about his smile, and the fact that the scar was still bleeding.

Will sighs, hand tightening on the handle of the straight razor he rarely used on his face anymore. He had bought it four some-odd years ago, shortly after he had been released from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He had bought it with  _ him _ in mind. He used to shave, blade scraping gently across his neck, imagining it was  _ Hannibal _ wielding it. Nowadays, he can't bring himself to do it. His hands shake too much when he tries, and the last thing Molly needs is another dead husband. So he brings the blade down low. Presses the sharpened edge to his smile, and for the first time in months, he can  _ feel _ again.

He watches as the blood wells up, slips down the blade and onto his hand. He cuts deep, but short. He doesn't think he would be able to explain himself if he opens the smile completely. So he just makes a small cut. Large enough to prod with a finger, but not large enough to need more than a stitch or two. 

He drops the blade and takes another swig of wine. Pausing to stare at the bottle. It’s an unassuming bottle of red. Nothing spectacular, if not for the year. Still, it is definitely not something one would find in say Doctor Lecter’s extensive wine cellar (unless you happened to check two nights after Devon Silvestri’s capture). Will is still not sure why he had decided to purchase it. He had told Molly it was in celebration of their anniversary, a fine wine for a fine woman. Whether it actually is a fine wine, he has honestly no idea. Back then, he had left it with the good doctor without bothering to open it, and now, all he can taste is regret.

Draining the rest of the bottle he places it down gently next to the bloody blade. In another life, those two objects placed beside to each other would have a very different connotation. In another life, he wouldn’t be sitting cold and alone, half-hard and in pain on the bathroom floor. Although, that last part might have still held true, but it certainly wouldn’t be Molly waiting for him in bed. No. In another life, he wouldn’t have to jerk off alone in a bathroom, fingers digging into a fresh wound just to remind himself that he’s still alive. 

The wound stings and he fists himself harder, his cock throbbing in his hand. It shouldn't be like this. He shouldn't have to hurt himself to  _ feel _ something, anything. Molly should have been enough, but she isn't.

He longs for that other life. The one that could have been. Should have been. He should have let time reverse. Let the teacup come back together. He could have been happy. Truly happy. But instead he has this. This empire of dirt, this throne of lies.

He digs his finger in deeper, past the layer of fat, and imagines that he can feel his guts. He pumps his cock faster, chasing the feel of Hannibal's hands, the sound of his voice, the smell of his skin. The years have dulled the memories, the rooms of his mind palace molding and decrepit, steadily collecting dust. Yet, as his blunt nails scratch against his insides, igniting every nerve ending in his body, he can almost see that ghost of a smile. Those words resounding across the halls of the Uffizi. He can feel the warmth of those hands against his nape, taste the salt of Hannibal's tears. Or were they his own? He doesn't know anymore. They have conjoined long ago, and no amount of distance, no amount of time can severe that connection.

He sobs as he comes, faster than he can ever remember coming. Hannibal's name is on the tip of his tongue, his voice resounding in his head. It is too much and not enough, and he can finally admit that he aches for the man. 

It is too little too late. What can he do now? His monster is locked away, and he himself has become a shadow of a man. A farce. What could he possible offer his monster? Fragments of the man he used to be?

And yet.

There are days like today. Days when he can find the courage to hurt himself, to see if he still feels. If he focuses on the pain, he can almost believe that he is real. They  _ they _ were real. He is sure that if Molly could see him now, could see what he's become, she'd abandon him too. Like Alana did, like Jack did, for they all go away in the end. 

Will pulls his finger from the wound, wet with his blood that he drags over the streaks of white on his stomach. He needs to move. He needs to stitch up the wound and clean himself up. Pray that he hasn't infected the wound. He needs to put the blade away and crawl back into bed _ with his wife. _

He doesn't want to move though. For the first time in months he actually feels  _ alive. _ When the pain ebbs and all he's left with is the feeling of uncomfortable tacky fluids cooling on his stomach, he finally moves. He finds the saline and sutures and imagines it's Hannibal's hands on him as he flushes the wound and stitches himself up. Molly probably won't notice the wound, not if he doesn't draw any attention to it. And if she does, she probably won't say anything, she hasn't the last few times. 

He rinses off the razor. Meticulously drying it before putting it away reverently. He takes a moment, tried to reinforce his forts as pushes those broken thoughts away, locks up those pieces of himself which are beyond repair. Those parts of him that Molly cannot touch. That Jack cannot touch. That he himself cannot bear to touch.

One day he'll find his way back. He'll find a way to start again, and this time, he won't lose himself. He'll find a way to keep himself whole. Complete.  _ Seen. _


End file.
